-1April 12, 1902
Brooklyn, New York
It was in his bones. In the pit of his stomach.
Something's not right.
It was in his mind. Spot Conlon was so connected to Brooklyn, he innately sensed something was wrong. But he couldn't quite put his finger on it.
"Conlon, we'se got company," said Tricks, appearing behind Spot, who sat, almost hidden, behind a throne of crate boxes overlooking the Hudson.
Spot turned and first saw his newsies swarming toward the street. He stepped up onto a box for a better view and noticed four, surly boys stomping toward him without breaking stride or letting the intimidation of the group of boys throw them off. Spot knew at once it was Crown Heights. He crossed his arm over his chest tightly and rotated his head so that his neck cracked loudly.
Tricks marched right up to the first boy from Crown Heights--clearly the leader--and socked him in the face. The boy reeled backward and caught his balance as his boys shoved Brooklyn newsies out of the way in defense. Tricks spat in the leader's face, and the latter returned with a punch to Tricks's stomach.
"Break it up, break it up!" shouted Twist. He worked his way through the group of bloodthirsty, anxious boys and yanked Tricks out of the middle.
"C'mon, let 'em talk to Conlon first…" reasoned Twist. He turned to his fellow newsies and muttered, "…Then we can hang 'em from the docks."
"Fuckin' right, Twist!"
"Yeah, get these cunts outta our turf!"
Spot Conlon watched from his perch and moved not a muscle. He whistled between his lips and the boys snapped to attention, letting the boys from Crown Heights walk toward the Brooklyn king.
"Mornin', fellas," said Spot coldly. "What the hell're you doin' on my turf?"
"Who the hell d'ya think ya are kidnappin' my boy Johnny, Conlon?" asked the Crown Heights leader, standing in the shade of Spot's towering shadow over him.
"Who the hell d'ya think I am, Jinx? I'm Brooklyn. Your boy Johnny crossed Brooklyn. I got every right to do what I did."
"Right er wrong, you'se gonna hand 'im over. Now."
Jinx's fists clenched and his breaths came in and out harshly through his flared nostrils. Spot glared directly back and answered, "How d'ya know I ain't already killed 'im?"
"'Cause that'd be too easy, Conlon. I don't care how much 'a Brooklyn you think you own, you don't own Crown Heights. Johnny didn't even do nothin'!"
Spot jumped down onto the docks so that he was eye level with Jinx now. Jinx couldn't help it: he flinched.
"Is that right?" asked Spot, getting uncomfortably close to his opponent's face. "Boys, any 'a you heard 'a this place Crown Heights? I sure as hell ain't!"
The boys followed along, shrugging and exaggerating their ignorance to the territory.
"Where exactly is that, again?" played one boy.
"Yeah, who's this guy think he is?"
"Don't he know who he's talkin' to?"
"Nope, he sure as hell don't!" answered Spot, smirking heartlessly into Jinx's menacing face.
The Crown Heights boy paused, staring back with daggers, until he responded, "All's I'm gonna say is, if you don't give Johnny back right now, this ain't ovah between us. I'm gonna make you regret that decision, Conlon."
Spot suddenly crashed his knuckle into Jinx's nose and replied icily, "I don't regret nothin'."
"You stopped selling papers," said Emma to Thompson as she sat up in Eyes' bed at dawn the next morning. "Why?"
Thompson shoved his foot into his boot, starting on the laces. "Wasn't makin' enough money. Workin' at the factory gets me three times as much in a day as I did hawkin' the headlines."
Emma looked out the window. Visible in the distance was the harbor.
"That must've been an earful for Spot to hear. What'd he say when you told him?"
"Well," sighed Thompson, "he didn't take it good. He said I might as well be dead to him 'cause he couldn't see how anyone would turn their back on they brothers like that."
"But you didn't, exactly, did you?"
"No. Spot don't like bein' told somethin' that ain't exactly what he thinks. I mean, the boy sure likes a good fight, but not with his own. He was pissed. Still is. Almost all the boys except fer Eyes've disowned me."
"Because what Spot says goes, right?" Emma shook her head. "I can't believe that. Disowning you is disloyalty in itself."
Thompson laced up his other shoe and hopped up to his feet and sighed, "Yeah, unfortunately Spot don't think that way anymore."
"Yeah, I suppose he was logical at one point in his life, right?" laughed Emma.
Thompson half-smiled at her and buttoned the rest of his shirt. He looked at her and replied, "He was. But he had you around to talk sense into him."
Emma said nothing but merely looked at Thompson. He waved goodbye and exited the apartment. Eyes and their other roommates had left already that morning. Emma crawled into a ball and rested her head on the mattress. She closed her eyes and let herself travel back, years ago.
Spot shrugged and sat up straight. His eyes traveled upward as if to the sky and his chest puffed out arrogantly before answering, "Apparently I'm hot shit."
Emma rolled her eyes and punched him in the chest. Spot immediately hunched his shoulders and he let out a breath of air. Offended, he rubbed the spot she had hit him and cursed.
"Damn, what was that for?"
"Bein' a cocky bastard."
"Hey, ya gotta let me know now if ya can't handle me movin' up in the ranks, Em. Honestly."
She laughed out loud to herself. A knock came to the door and Emma sat up, hesitating to say anything. It opened slowly and Bolt poked his head around with a tired smile.
"Haven't you slept, Bolt?" greeted Emma impulsively.
He shook his head. "You exhaust me."
"Thank you. I tend to get that a lot."
"A'right, heah's what's goin' on: as I was walkin' down heah, I noticed a group 'a Crown Heights boys stompin' off toward the docks. I'm almost positive they'se gonna start some kinda battle between us an' them, so just stay in heah while I think 'a somethin' bettah to do," said Bolt groggily.
Emma was grateful for all he had been doing, but she couldn't help but pout like a little girl not being able to stick to her original plan--which wasn't well thought-out in the first place.
"Sorry," said Bolt half-heartedly.
"I understand. From what I've been hearing, Spot's some kind of monster now and I see what you mean about enemies. But, really, does anyone else even know who I am? Or that I'm even connected to Spot? How would I be doing any damage at all?"
"Ehh…" Bolt threw his hands into the air. "I don't wanna take that risk."
Emma sighed and laid back down. Her lack of response led Bolt to believe their conversation was over. He said goodbye, told her he would come back when he could, and left the apartment. It wasn't long, though, when Emma decided she was going to go crazy stuck in that apartment all alone for the rest of the day. She felt, in a very strange way, it was as if Spot was holding her captive too. Immediately she hated that notion, that Spot had control over her. So she grabbed her shoes, tucked her long blonde hair underneath Bolt's cap, and headed out the door.
The street was refreshing, even amid the hoards of people and deafening noises. She kept her eyes down the entire time, being slightly obedient to Bolt's requests. Quite frankly, all she needed was to get out of the apartment. The open space, even in the crowded city, felt good, and before she realized it, she had walked for hours.
"I can't believe Conlon's got our weapons. Might as well give myself up now to bein' soaked."
Emma's eyes glanced to the corner of the street she was on. Two boys stood talking animatedly.
"Yeah, and what the hell, Bolt couldn't 'a helped?" said the other.
"He tried but all he said was 'Conlon,' like some pussy. He just sat there. Didn't even try talkin' sense into Conlon and he wasn't even there when Crown Heights came to the docks this morning."
"What the hell? He ain't even tryin' to help us out. Ya think it was him who took the money?"
Emma felt a pang of guilt. She had pitched a roll of bills onto the street when Bolt had tried to give it to her. She knew it was him. What had Bolt done to get that money?
"No, I can't imagine Bolt doin' somethin' like that. Wasn't you who took the money, was it?"
"No! What the hell? Why would ya ask me that?"
The boy shrugged.
"Was it you?"
The boy shook his head. "Clemens guards that money with 'is life. Whoever did musta been real slick. But looks like we'se sleepin' on the street tonight."
"Goddamn."
The newsies walked away. Emma searched her memory and recollected that Clemens was the caretaker of the lodging house. She hung her head low when she realized that Bolt had stolen money from him in order to take care of her. He had lied to Spot--something Bolt would never sink low enough to do--and was now inadvertently turning the newsies against each other. All of this to protect her.
Emma popped her head up. All of this to protect her? No, to drive her away from Spot. What had she needed Bolt for in the first place? His help? Help with what,exactly? She hadn't gotten the chance to even see Spot ever since he had been "helping her," and it was doubtful to her that that was even going to happen even if he did say he would arrange a "meeting."
She folded her arms over her chest and started stomping down the street. It wasn't as if her intention was to come back to Brooklyn to rip Spot to shreds. How was her presence going to create that much of an impact anyway? To her, it wasn't going to at all. All she wanted was to talk to him. And if that wasn't going to happen with Bolt's help, then she would just have to do it herself.
